


Games and Lessons

by Germinal



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Bargaining, Canon Era, Class Issues, Corporal Punishment, Defiant Victim, Forced Oral, Fuck Or Die, Gunplay, M/M, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24540808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Germinal/pseuds/Germinal
Summary: In which the National Guard drive a very hard bargain with Enjolras and Les Amis.
Relationships: Combeferre/Enjolras (Les Misérables), Enjolras (Les Misérables)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 50
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Games and Lessons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kainosite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kainosite/gifts).



The barricade’s fall and the ending of the siege of Corinthe, when at last it came, was swift and total. In the end, blood spilled as easily as wine.

From his last stand against the tavern’s upstairs window, Enjolras draws a breath. The room has grown suffused with a sudden motionless silence that lends things an eerie air of time suspended. He breaks the standoff by throwing the broken stump of his carbine to the floor. He shakes his hair, matted with sweat and dried blood, out of his eyes and surveys the field.

Prouvaire, Bahorel, Pontmercy, he cannot see, and tells himself are lost. Those who remain - he cannot think of them as _prisoners_ , or _survivors_ \- are bruised and bloodied like their leader, in shirtsleeves stained and ripped, and have run dry of bullets if not yet of spirit. They are backed against the room’s far wall by rifles at their throats.

A further handful of men in the uniform of the National Guard are ranged across the room, keeping clear of the shards of shattered bottles and the broken and splintered chairs that litter the floor. Having taken the street's last rebel-held room, they seem uncertain how to take the matter further. Pale sunlight, hazy through the smoke that still fills the street outside, picks out the dull gleam on the barrels of their guns.

Enjolras, still breathing hard, watches as their captain, a man small in stature but bristling with rage, lifts a hand and snaps his fingers, pointing to the floor in front of him.

"You. Come here."

The expectation that he’ll follow enemy orders almost makes him laugh, despite his apprehension. Enjolras remains where he is standing and folds his arms.

"Come and take me, _monsieur_."

The captain gestures furiously to three of his subordinates, who cross the room quickly, if with some degree of caution, and wrench Enjolras’ arms behind his back. His capacity to resist, disarmed and weary to the bone as he is, he knows is only token at this juncture, and he can only glare before him and keep his arms stubbornly stiff as he feels them bind his wrists together.

The butts of their rifles, jabbing at the small of his back, drive him the few stumbling steps it takes to stand before the captain. The man stares at Enjolras almost in wonder, then spits:

"Are you proud of what you’ve done?"

Blood has drenched both sleeves of the man’s jacket and is still drying above one eye. His voice carries the weight of days spent fighting, but its depth is spiked with the final exultation of having a fixed target to take it out on. He takes his rifle lengthwise in both hands and jams it hard against Enjolras’ throat.

"Happy, are you, pretty-boy, with all this? All this chaos and mindless destruction, good men dying for your stupid games?"

Swallowing hard, Enjolras returns his stare. There is no possibility yet of weighing up the costs of these horrific hours, no way of calculating which participants have lost the most. He only knows that one side – the people – have the right of it, and must still have.

Crushing exhaustion, and the swooping rush of adrenaline that is rapidly returning to him, lend his reply an edge of bravado that he does not wholly feel in truth, nor think is wise.

"Nothing in my life has made me happier than this."

The captain steps back, his features narrowing in disgust, and backhands Enjolras hard once, then twice. At the third slap, Enjolras gasps as he feels his lower lip split. The blood he licks instinctively from the corner of his mouth is not the first he’s tasted in the last few hours, but he sees the sight of it sparks something in his opponent’s eyes. Did he not think Enjolras himself could bleed?

"Then you’ve not yet learned the error of your ways. Let’s see what we can teach you. Hold him down, lads."

At a nod to the men behind him, the three of them take hold of Enjolras none too gently, dragging him a few steps across the room and pinning him bent across a table where he twists in vain against their grip. He can turn his head enough to see the captain shrugging off his shoulder-belt and doubling the thick white leather between his hands.

He brings it down before Enjolras can brace himself, and the first blow of the makeshift strap wrings a shocked and breathless yelp from him, the sound making him determined it will be the last they have the satisfaction of hearing. He pushes desperately against the hands flattened across his shoulders and back but can do nothing to throw them off. As the second smack lands he tenses, clamps his lips together and stays silent through the next few blows delivered to his thighs and buttocks, until the strap’s relentless stinging heat makes it impossible not to cry out again.

Enjolras cannot keep the incredulity out of his voice when, in between the shouts forced out of him on impact, he manages: "Is this what your duty of office demands? Punishing a grown man like a schoolboy?"

The captain, panting with effort, spits back: "This was duty until now. You’re forcing me to mix it with pleasure."

Then he stands back, grinning mirthlessly, in a way that makes Enjolras’ heart thump even faster.

"But, if it’s grown-up punishment you’re after…"

Fury, or something like it, has entirely taken the captain over as he hauls Enjolras upright and then shoves him to his knees. Taking a vice-like grip on his chin, he forces the stiff cold barrel of his rifle into Enjolras’ mouth.

Here it is, then, the expected end – or one of them at least. It ends here, with Enjolras on his knees before his friends and followers, his brains blown out across the same room where he’d spent so many hours wondering if all this would end in victory or death. Fighting an overwhelming surge of nausea and light-headedness, Enjolras lets his eyes fall shut.

But he only feels the barrel shoved deeper, until he audibly gags on it. Hard metal scrapes the back of his throat a few more times, sparking the coppery taste of blood beneath the traces of smoke and steel before the barrel is slid free, leaving Enjolras to double over, dry-heaving. His eyes still closed, he hears what must be the rifle clatter to the floor.

Any relief is short-lived as Enjolras opens his eyes to find the man unbuttoning his trousers. He steps forward again, his fist clenching tight in a painful grasp of Enjolras’s hair and his other hand tight around his cock.

From across the room, over the ringing in his ears, Enjolras hears a disbelieving shout of "What the devil d’you think you’re – " before the brief protesting voice – Bossuet? Courfeyrac? – is abruptly cut off in a choked gasp.

The captain grins and turns to face the interruption. "What? Think he’s too good for this, your precious golden boy?"

He looks back to Enjolras, already nudging the blunt head of his cock against his lips. Enjolras struggles to wrench his face away but is held fast.

"I’m sure he thinks he’s too good for this too – but he’s not. He’s a worthless little cocksucker like the rest of you – and if he doesn’t want to get any more of you shot where you stand, he’ll open that insolent mouth right now and prove it."

The sudden switch of the prospect of violent, undignified death from himself to his remaining friends – because of him – is perhaps more sickening than anything he’s faced so far. It is all he can do to keep from retching, but as the man above him presses his cock insistently against his lips Enjolras makes himself open his mouth to it. If he can force himself through this final trial, surely, it is only his death that awaits.

With his mouth jammed full of thick and pulsing heat, his eyes move wildly and he casts about to find something to serve as a distraction. He settles on the feeling of the cold and hardness of the floor against his knees, the ache across his shoulders from his bound wrists.

The captain keeps his hand fisted in Enjolras’ hair while he thrusts his cock deeper, stuffing his mouth and not relenting until Enjolras is gagging again, the muscles of his throat clenching, his hands twisting desperately against their binding as he gasps for air. In between laboured exhalations the captain mutters low, seemingly more to himself than to the man in front of him:

"Go on – go on, take it – suck it like you sucked my rifle – you arrogant, upstart – fucking – "

His stuttered insults and his cock climax as one, and he holds Enjolras’ face fast against his crotch as he spends, pumping a thick hot load into his mouth.

It’s too much to swallow, even if he'd known how to prepare himself, and Enjolras coughs and shudders as he feels it overspill his mouth and trickle down his chin. The thought of how he must look is unbearable, and he gazes past the man before him to the smoke-stained tavern wall. The empty quiet of the room is worse than the cacophony of bloodshed and destruction he’d grown used to in the past few hours, that chaos which had occupied his entire world and seemed as though it would never end.

Buttoning himself back up and bringing himself together, breathing hard, the captain scans the room.

"Right then. Anyone else fancy carrying on the lesson?"

The men around him fall into uneasy, shuffling silence as his gaze lands on them by turn, none of them seeming quite ready to meet his eyes. After a while he jabs a finger towards a guard who’s standing at the edge of the group with his head bowed, staring fixedly at the floor.

"You, come on, get over here, you look like you’re fit to burst."

He watches as the guard jerks to attention, then uncertainly steps forward. "That’s it – get over here and show him how we deal with stuck-up fucking troublemakers like him."

This guard, though tall, is thin to the point of malnourished, and looks younger even than Enjolras. A bruise is livid on his cheekbone. As he steps up his expression is still wary, and Enjolras does his best to meet his gaze with steadiness and calm.

"Think carefully, please," he says, still heaving air into his lungs. "You don’t have to take this man’s orders. If you will just consider - "

The young guard lands a ringing slap across Enjolras’ face, its strength surprising, snapping his face to the side and causing a shock of pain to blossom in his bruised lower lip.

In an accent low and rougher than the captain's clipped tones, he snarls: "You fucking think you can talk down to me like that?"

He flings a hand towards the men still pressed against the wall and his words become a wild, almost desperate stream of invective. Enjolras thinks he’s not entirely sure where he’s directing it.

"You think you can tell me what to do, do you? You think you’re better than us? They didn’t have to do what you said either, did they, rich boy, and now look at the state of you all – "

If Enjolras could think of any useful rejoinder, he has no chance to give it as the guard grabs his loosened collar and pulls him forward, tearing open his own fall-front with his free hand. His cock, already hard and hot, slams into the back of Enjolras’ throat before he can prepare for it, and he can only try to swallow around its length as the guard takes a punishing grip with both hands at the back of his neck. 

He feels his eyes begin to water. The guard thrusts deeply at first, hips bucking wildly against Enjolras’ face. Then he relaxes into quick and shallow strokes, as if experimenting – as if all this is as new to him as it is to Enjolras.

"Good lad," the captain says. "Go on, a bit harder, make him choke on it - "

The guard, instinctively obedient, grabs Enjolras’ hair and forces his face against his crotch, and as he hears Enjolras choke on his cock his fingers screw even tighter in his curls. There is both instinct and controlled determination in the way he snaps his hips, holding Enjolras’ head steady as his thrusting and his laboured breathing grow towards a peak.

Enjolras steels himself to take another mouthful, but instead the guard yanks his cock out of his mouth and jerks it in a few quick twists, staring at Enjolras in something like triumph as he spends across his face.

Enjolras feels its sticky warmth cool rapidly against his cheek and brow. He watches as the boy returns to the group of guards, a few of whom chuckle and clap him on the back. Enjolras notes some horrible newfound confidence in how he carries himself, the straighter set of his shoulders as he takes his place with the rest.

"Think he liked it?" asks one. "Christ, look at the state he's in - face like a dockside whore."

"I bet he’s had enough practice with his friends over there," says another, to general sniggering.

"Fucking students, nothing better to do all day but cause trouble and suck each other off – "

The captain glances shrewdly at his men, and then back to Enjolras. "Yes, I bet they’ve all had a turn with him – or wanted to. I bet he’s a regular little whore when he’s not in the street stirring things up. Shall we see if I’m right?"

He takes a fistful of Enjolras’ hair again, twisting him round to face his friends.

"Who do you want next, eh? Who’s your favourite? Which of their cocks always makes your mouth water?"

He cannot look directly at them, and casts his eyes instead to the side. His indistinct impression shows a row of horrified faces, awaiting perhaps some leadership, some sign for action, that he only wishes he could offer them.

Seeing Enjolras stiff and silent, his blue eyes blazing fury, the captain looks back to his friends lined up against the wall.

"All right, you’re getting one of two choices. Clever boys like you know how to weigh your options up, I’m sure."

He faces them and thrusts his rifle up towards the ceiling.

"Your friend can either take this up his posh-boy arse – and believe me I won’t mind pulling the trigger when I’m done – or he can take one of your posh-boy cocks. Come on, then, which of you wants him first?"

In the quiet that follows, Enjolras brings himself to glance at them. It is Courfeyrac who breaks the group’s stupefied silence, his voice as coldly, sharply serious as Enjolras has ever heard it.

"None of us do. This isn’t a game to us, _gentlemen_. Do us the courtesy of not further disgracing yourselves, and – "

His words are lost in raucous laughter from the guards around him, before a few of them take up the captain’s demands themselves.

"Sounds like he’s protesting too much – shall we let him go first?"

"Go on, what are you waiting for? He’s pretty enough. Might have a crack at him myself – "

"He got you all into this mess, didn’t he? You may as well get a decent fuck out of it - "

"All right, enough! Stop this, please. I’ll do what you ask."

Combeferre looks as amazed to have heard himself speak these words as the rest of them do.

"Well done, lad!" the captain bellows, sounding almost drunk. "Get him over here."

Enjolras is astonished. He and Combeferre have, of course, discussed eventualities. Enjolras can recall the times when, in the sombre chill of dawn after a night spent on abstract plans and practical logistics, they’d agreed to recognise the plain human reality of where insurrection might lead. They’d agreed that they might have to watch each other bleed, or watch each other die, but never had they factored in undreamt-of injury like this.

Crossing the room with slow steps, the last few hurried by a rifle at his back, Combeferre reaches him and sets a hand under Enjolras’ jaw. Enjolras notes his hands and sleeves are dark with dirt, gunpowder and what must be blood. His touch is cool and, after the guards' manhandling, feels incongrously gentle, as though he is trying to soothe a terrified and captive animal.

Enjolras makes an effort to turn his face away, and mutters, his voice noticeably roughened by the abuse his mouth and throat have taken: 

"Don’t, for god’s sake, do this – let them shoot me."

Combeferre speaks rapidly and low, under his breath.

"Let them shoot you – let them shoot us all? No, Enjolras. It shouldn’t end like this. This isn’t worth – "

He might have more to say, but the captain’s look of expectation grows impatient. As he sees the captain’s grip tighten on his gun, Combeferre’s hands go quickly to his belt.

He steps closer still, as though to shield Enjolras from the ring of avidly watching eyes that has formed around them, and the hand under Enjolras’ chin tugs his mouth open with an apologetic pressure before his cock pushes in. Enjolras can do nothing but open his mouth to receive it.

He cannot think of giving his friend pleasure like this, and Combeferre is clearly taking no pleasure himself in his grim duty. His cock is thick, solid and heavy on Enjolras’ tongue but he is stock-still, his face flushed and frowning, his hands stiffly fastened in Enjolras’ hair as much for support as for guidance.

This won’t do. Enjolras can see the need for him to play his own part here, to give the guards a show, and so to get this whole ordeal over and done with quickly for them both – and for them all. If he has led his friends to this disaster, he can at least try to lead them out of it.

Hoping this strategy will become apparent to Combeferre, Enjolras begins to move his head slowly up and down, pressing his lips more tightly together around his friend’s cock, working his mouth along the length and drawing back to ply his tongue at the tip. Above him, he hears Combeferre’s breathing quicken.

He shuts his eyes and disconnects from this appalling scene. He licks and sucks despite his swollen lips and aching jaw, trying to replicate the actions he’d been forced through all those long, long moments earlier, trying to make his mouth and throat welcome this intrusion rather than repel.

"Oh, he’s done this before, look – I bet their cocks are never out of his mouth," he hears one of the guards jeer, and tries to take it as a tribute to his newfound acting skills. He will at least, he thinks bitterly, die more of an expert in this particular field than he’s lived.

He clearly isn’t yet expert enough to overcome the situation’s dizzying mix of terror and absurdity. He looks up at Combeferre and widens his eyes, trying to communicate something of the need for him to play his part as Enjolras is doing, but after a few half-hearted thrusts into his mouth his friend sets his hands on Enjolras’ shoulders, then jerks his cock free and steps back as though he cannot do so fast enough.

Combeferre turns to face the captain. "Sir, you’ve had – "

His mouth twists in distaste, and he takes a breath then tries again.

"You’ve had your entertainment, and we’ve had our lesson, I assure you. Let this be the last of it, take us out into the street and we’ll go quietly to our fate, like men."

The captain gives a burst of incredulous laughter.

“You think you’re in any position to bargain, do you, standing there with your wet cock out? You lot really do think you’re better than the rest of us, don’t you?"

He moves to hoist Enjolras up and throws him back face-down over the table. This time Enjolras does not even think of doing anything other than lying still.

"Let’s see how well you can make your leader scream first."

Enjolras, realising he is trembling out of sheer exhaustion and his vision starting to swim, bows his forehead to rest on the wood of the table. He feels himself giving ridiculous thanks for its support.

Behind him, he hears Combeferre draw another deep and shaky breath.

"And then it ends, _monsieur_?" he asks.

The guard gives no response, but, one way or another, Enjolras thinks, after this it ends. It must.

This is no time for thinking. As Combeferre takes his place behind him, setting one hand firmly on the small of his back, Enjolras concentrates instead on the table’s hard, unyielding surface. He focuses on the overturned chairs he can see if he raises his head, and wonders which of them was his habitual place for planning, drinking and communing with friends, in that other world now smashed to splinters around him.

He feels his trousers yanked down to his knees, the hands too careless, fast and rough, he thinks, to be Combeferre’s. Bared to his audience, the welts from the captain’s strapping sting anew in the room’s cold air.

He steels himself to silence. But he has to shudder when his friend’s fingers, wet with what must be only spit, probe gently but insistently between his cheeks. He has to gasp when a thick hard weight replaces them and, with no more warning, Combeferre starts to thrust into him fast and deep.

If he’d been reluctant to properly fuck Enjolras’ mouth, Combeferre seems now to have realised the necessity for display, for entertainment. He shoves his cock in hard, his fingers tightening on Enjolras’ hips, hard enough to make him picture the bruises they’ll leave when he’s done. It takes the feel of three or four relentless strokes, seeming to split him open, before Enjolras properly cries out, then bites his lip to silence himself.

There is nothing he can compare this to. This stretch and pressure, the pistoning of his friend’s hips against his buttocks and the weight thrust deep inside him that accompanies it. Enjolras starts to hear his own voice, out of his control, giving breathless gasps in rhythm with Combeferre’s steady strokes. He lets himself fall further forward, lets the table take his weight. All he has to do is endure, play his part, let his friend make the use of his body a show for them all.

He hears the captain snap: "Go on, you can do better than that - give him what he wants - "

A sudden hard smack to his arse, stinging and shocking, earning a burst of crude appreciation from their audience, wrenches him back from his distanced contemplation. This is happening, now, and he cannot pretend that it’s not. His friend’s cock is hot, thick and heavy inside him, and his friend’s fingers are digging into his hips. The steady, merciless rhythm grows faster as his friend holds him more tightly, and he cannot prevent the regular " _ah – ah – please –_ " that is forced from his lips.

Might there be well-earned anger, or resentment, driving the way that Combeferre fucks him? Is he taking the opportunity to do what he’s wanted for years? Or is he merely playing his own role, speeding them both towards an exit to who knows where? Enjolras cannot tell, and does not want to know. It is all he can do to listen to his own begging and pleading, as loud as though it comes from somewhere else, from someone wholly separate to him.

The room is silent but for his own gasps and moans, louder than the dutiful harsh breaths he can hear at each of Combeferre’s accelerating thrusts. He feels himself push back involuntarily, meeting his friend’s hips in what must look to their audience like wanton abandon but which Enjolras could not control if he tried. Faster and faster, shoving Enjolras hard against the wood of the table, the motion lending a rough friction to his own cock and bringing on a slow pooling of heat he cannot bring himself to think about. He hears his own voice rise in pitch to something halfway between a scream and a sob.

Combeferre’s grasp of him grows even tighter, the rhythm of his strokes begins to stutter, and Enjolras grits his teeth and feels the end approaching for them both. He feels the hot wet burst of his friend’s climax inside him and he lets himself fall forward hard against the table, giving a cry that is not only the scream his audience are waiting for but a greater, full admission of defeat.

He lets the crowding darkness overtake his vision and he lets himself lie fucked into shaking, sobbing incoherence as he feels his friend step back, leaving him laid out on the table like a sacrifice on an altar.

* * *

It is what feels like an eternity later that he feels his wrists being gently released from their binding. He opens his eyes and slowly, warily raises his head. It is Combeferre whose hands are twined with his, softly supportive, rubbing the feeling back into the muscles with a practised touch.

It is Courfeyrac who’s talking to the captain of the guard, one hand tense on his shoulder, using harsh and then persuasive words.

It is Feuilly who sets Enjolras back on his feet, letting him stand without insisting that he lean upon him. The room is full of nothing like remorse, still less apology, but of some apparent satisfaction reached.

"Come along, then," the captain says, meeting Enjolras’ eyes uneasily. He nods towards the stairs. "We’ll march you off to the Prefecture and you’ll get a slap on the wrist, like your sort always do."

His glance grows sly. "You won’t be trying this again, though, will you?"

Enjolras thinks about killing the man with his bare hands, but makes no reply.

He is the first to leave the room and he steps unsteadily onto the street, amazed to find it is still daylight outside. He instinctively averts his eyes from the scene before him, but then he makes himself look back, and knows he will remember every detail of the strewn corpses of men both enemy and brother-in-arms, the wreckage of the barricade, the drying blood, still pooled in places, staining the ground.

As his friends are pushed out one by one into the day’s dim sunlight from the darkened tavern, they turn to meet his gaze. Enjolras searches in their eyes for condemnation, blame, disgust, but he finds only relief and understanding.

He takes a last glance at the street, then turns. With their steps shadowed by the guards, he leads his friends away.

**Author's Note:**

> Treat written for Kainosite for nonconathon2020. 
> 
> It's been years since I've written Les Mis fic, but who can resist a prompt for National Guard noncon extravaganza? I hope you enjoy it!


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